Biscuit Risk-it.


I accidentally left my mum’s biscuit barrel in her garden for a fortnight.

I didn’t realise this until today, when I went to pick up my mum's dog from the place he stays when she's away on holiday. No sooner had I unlatched the gate than I saw it sitting on the table, slightly damp, almost taunting me for forgetting it.

It had been outside for two weeks. That’s fourteen days, or three hundred and thirty six hours, or twenty thousand one hundred and sixty minutes. I could keep breaking up the time into its bare components, but I won’t. Let’s just say it was in the garden for longer than a biscuit barrel should be.

A cookie jar isn’t meant to face the elements. It’s not in its remit. That’s what you have a house for: to provide the requisite shelter for your biscuits. You could keep them al fresco for a weekend at most, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

As I lifted the lid I feared the worst. What mushy, crumbly horror would be revealed? I needn’t have worried. They were in mint condition; it was like they’d been stored in a hermetically-sealed environment.

That biscuit tin is hardcore.

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